


More Like Father

by orphan_account



Category: Doraemon (Manga)
Genre: Angst, Father-Son Relationship, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 08:05:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4821560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're just like your father!" Years ago, this had been a compliment. As time passed, it became a challenge. Now, as Suneo's wife slams the door in his face for the last time, he realizes that all along, it had been the worst insult imaginable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Compliment

The bell on the cash register pinged. The cashier riffled through the stacks of money and thumbed out a few crisp bills to return to Mama. Mama began rounding up her haul of oversized shopping bags.

 

Suneo’s attention had wandered to the other people who roamed the boutique. None of them, he thought, were dressed nearly as nice as he and Mama. Neither did any of them appear to be toting along purses or wallets that were all that hefty. How then, did these people—more common people—manage to shop in such an outrageous boutique?

 

He jolted from his thoughts when he heard the crackle of a paper bag dropping to the floor. He skittered forward a step in surprise before scanning the area to see what had fallen. His gaze came to rest on a stooped, gnarled old woman who bent forward on her cane, staring through her spectacles at the crumpled bag and cans of perfume that had rolled out.

 

Without thinking, Suneo trotted up to the woman and tucked his hands behind his back. He surveyed the damage for a moment. The woman raised her head. Her gout-twisted hands tightened around the handle of her cane.

 

“I like that perfume,” Suneo said. “The one in the blue bottle. Bergamot. My mama wears that.”

 

A smile thinned the woman’s wrinkled lips. Her pink eyes squinted.

 

“Your mama has good taste. Bergamot is a lovely scent. It reminds me of summers in the countryside.”

 

Suneo crouched, gathering up the bottles of perfume and tubes of pale lipstick. He examined each one intently before tucking it back into the bag. With the slow deliberation of a focused child, he took up the twine handles of the bag, bumped the cardboard bottom against the ground a couple of times to even it out, and stood. He peeked inside, then extended the bag to the woman.

 

“Nothing’s broken.”

 

The woman’s smile grew tender. Leaning forward on her cane, she took the bag.   


 

“Thank you, dear. That was very helpful.”

 

“I know,” Suneo said as he pushed against the door, struggling to open it. He leaned against it, acting as a doorstopper to hold it open as the woman plodded through.

 

The sudden scent of sandalwood and ylang ylang wafted by seconds before Mama breezed through. Her stiletto heels clacked over the tile. She halted abruptly behind the old woman. One half of her mouth twisted in an impatient sneer. She glanced at Suneo, whose legs trembled with the effort of keeping the door from slamming shut.

 

“I do beg your pardon, ma’am,” Mama said, her voice tangy with reproach. “I need to get by.”

 

The woman turned around slowly. Suneo could hear her joints creaking like unoiled hinges. Unfazed by Mama’s rudeness, the woman beamed up at her. The smile lifted the wrinkles from her jaws and gathered them around her eyes.

 

“Are you the mama who wears bergamot?”

 

Mama blinked. Her earrings swayed when she snapped back. She cast a look at Suneo, and said hesitantly, “Yes . . . ?”

 

“You’re a very beautiful young lady,” the woman observed. She nudged her spectacles onto the plateau of her hooked nose. “Your son over there is handsome too. He has wonderful manners.”

 

At this compliment, Mama’s demeanor changed as swiftly as though someone had flipped a light switch. The trace of disgust in her voice faded as she gave a few silvery giggles.

 

“Oh, really? Oh, my.” She flattened her hand against her cheek. “Well, I’ve always tried. We want to pass down the more traditional etiquette to our children, of course. We learn the manners taught in the samurai ages, back when courtesy and public image had utmost priority. So much more rewarding and impressive than the ‘whatever-goes’ attitude of most children today.” She sniffed.

 

“Did you say Honekawa?” the woman said. Her hand went to her ear, as though she were considering adjusting a hearing aid. “You’re Honekawas?”

 

“Why, yes, we—“

 

“I should have known,” the woman said. She let the bag dangle from her wrist, and clutched the hook of her cane with both clawlike hands. “You’re both so dignified and carry yourselves so well. Yes, yes. I should have known you were Honekawas.”

 

Mama hummed in agreement. “Well,” she said, pushing out her chest, “we don’t typically tend to advertise it, but—“

 

“Are you the family that owns the factories downtown? The family of that Mr. Honekawa? The wealthiest man in Hiroshima?”

 

Without waiting for Mama’s reply, the woman turned to Suneo to address him. Although she had been curt when speaking to Mama, she beamed at Suneo. Suneo felt inclined to smile back, although he didn’t know why.

 

“You,” the woman said, “are just like your father. Polite. Confident. You have that air about you, young man. Yes,” she said, almost musing to herself. “You’re just like your father. Always try to be like your papa, and you’ll be successful and admired, just like he is.”

 

A blush crept up Suneo’s face, warming his cheeks. He folded his hands behind his back. A strange rush of importance and pride made him tilt his head back and straighten his shoulders.

 

“Thank you. Yes, ma’am,” he said stoutly. After a moment’s thought, he clamped his arms against his sides and bowed at the waist. As he stood upright, he said, his face screwed into a mask of intent determination:

 

“I’m going to be just like Father when I grow up!” 


	2. Challenge

“ . . . And as the water passes through the semipermeable membrane to the side with the saline solution, the pressure continues to rise until it is equal on both sides of the membrane, a result of . . . . “

 

Suneo stifled a yawn until Teacher’s explanation of osmosis faded into a hum. He blinked. His ears felt as though they were full of cotton. With a quiet sigh, he propped his elbow on the desk and rested his chin on his fist. He scanned the room through half-shut eyes.

 

Shizuka sat primly, her ankles crossed. She doodled little kittens in the corner of her notebook without looking away from Teacher. Suneo watched her for a while. She scribbled ridiculous smiling faces onto the kittens. Suneo’s face pinched into a sneer of disgust before he looked away.

 

Gian hunched over his desk like a gigantic gargoyle. His shoulders shifted. Spurred on by curiosity, Suneo relented to the urge to lean over and peek. He squinted. Gian was busily folding a page of homework into a paper airplane.

 

Suneo rolled his eyes and slumped back into his seat. The legs squeaked. His arms dangled by his sides.

 

Even Nobita, who sat in the front row to remain under Teacher’s stern gaze, escaped being involved in the lesson with no reprimand. He occupied himself by linking paperclips together into a chain, which by now nearly reached his lap.

 

Suneo pressed his head against the back of his chair and stared up at the ceiling. His eyes flicked back and forth, tracing the outline of the patterns in the sheetrock. When his neck began to cramp from the awkward position, he sat upright and adjusted his posture.

 

On impulse, he slid his hand into his desk slot, fumbled, and withdrew a piece of paper. After finding a pencil, he settled himself comfortably and began to draw. The instant the pencil lead met the paper, Suneo felt as though all his frustration and boredom funneled from his body, out of the lead, and onto the paper in the form of curlicues and dollar signs.

 

His muscles relaxed as the tension drained. The cobwebs in his mind dissipated, leaving him smiling through a contented daydream as he drew. The quiet activity of restless students and the buzz of Teacher’s voice blurred together until they mattered nothing at all.

 

Suneo barely realized he had covered his page with swirls and doodles until the muffled tittering of his classmates jolted him from his reverie. He straightened up and glanced about to find that everyone was looking at him. Some gaped with astonishment, while others squashed their hands over their mouths to hold in the giggles.

 

“Mr. Honekawa!” Suneo realized he had heard Teacher’s voice bark the same thing seconds earlier. Suneo scrunched down in his seat when Teacher aimed his finger down the row of desks at him.

 

“Please, Mr. Honekawa,” Teacher said. “We aren’t currently in art class. If you’ll wait another ten minutes, you can draw all you like.”

 

The stifled giggles continued. Suneo swiped up his paper, crumpled it furiously, and crammed it into the farthest corner of his desk. He slumped, tightened his arms over his chest, and sat stewing in humiliation and a sense of betrayal and wounded dignity. He was acutely aware of how every gaze directed at him stung, making hot shivers worm around under his clothes. He scowled at a dendrite of eraser dust that lay on his desk.

 

Minutes dragged by, each one leaving Suneo hotter and angrier. When the bell finally rang and classmates snatched up their bags and spewed out of the room, Suneo left his desk and stomped to the front of the room. His soles squeaked against the floor when he squared himself.

 

Teacher stopped scrubbing the chalkboard and lowered the eraser. He turned to Suneo, squinting at him through the haze of chalk dust.

 

“Yes?”

 

Suneo blinked in surprise. No reprimand? Had Teacher already forgotten about scolding Suneo in front of the entire class?

 

He shook himself to recover and pulled his scowl back into place. With Teacher’s apparent indifference, Suneo now felt ridiculous for planning to pitch a tantrum.

 

“I just wanted to know, well . . . . “ Suneo pushed his hands behind his back and twisted his fingers together. A burst of courage tingled through his temples. “Why did you yell at me in class? It was unfair; everybody else was doing other things too! Why didn’t you yell at any of them? Nobita was playing with paperclips, and Gian was making paper airplanes, and—“

 

“Mr. Honekawa. No tattling, please,” Teacher said quietly. His tone was so soft and almost fatherly that it instantly silenced Suneo. He returned the eraser to the shelf on the chalkboard, hooked his foot around the leg of his chair, and dragged it closer until he could sit. He propped his elbows on his desk, folded his hands into a steeple, and stared intently over his fingers at Suneo.

 

“Do you really want to know why I had to single you out?”

 

Suneo risked a small nod.

 

Teacher continued, “I’ll tell you why. Suneo, it’s only because I expect so much more from you.”

 

Suneo’s eyes widened. A spark of pride warmed his heart.

 

“I can’t give the same courtesy to many of my other students,” Teacher said with a labored sigh. “I can to Mr. Dekisugi, of course, and generally Ms. Minamoto. But you’re one of those few that I truly expect high performance from.” He raised his eyebrows. “Ones such as Mr. Nobi and Mr. Gouda, well, I’m more surprised to see them involved in class than I am to see them slack in their work. It gets rather boring constantly interrupting lessons to call their names, I’m sure you understand.”

 

Suneo’s mind spun with this information. Teacher held him in such high regard? That was why he held him to higher standards? The unfairness and injustice of the situation struck Suneo like an arrow.

 

Nobody expected Nobita and Gian to tote home stacks of papers with “100”s slashed across the top. Nobody expected them to sit up stiff as a porcelain doll or always respond “yes, sir” or “no, ma’am.” And people often grew weary of constantly chiding them and left them to their own devices.

 

Suneo glowered down at his spotless loafers, wishing that the patent leather toes would crackle into flames. He felt almost like a scapegoat. The responsibilities and expectations that should have been divided equally amongst his classmates were nearly all heaped on his shoulders.

 

“Why me?” he blurted before he could stop himself. “Why do you expect things from me?”

 

Teacher looked at Suneo as though he were speaking some alien language. “Suneo . . . what is your surname?”

 

Suneo squinted, waiting for a punchline of some sort. It never spelled good news when adults asked a question to which there was a stupidly obvious answer. Finally, he said, suspiciously, “Honekawa.”

 

“Precisely,” Teacher said. And at that moment, Suneo knew exactly down which path this lecture would lead. He felt as though rocks were sinking into his stomach.

 

“You are a Honekawa,” Teacher began, sounding as important as a presidential candidate giving a speech. “You are from a most prestigious, well-known line of some of the most famous, wealthy, and intelligent people in the country. From your great-great-great-grandfather and downward through the generations, your family has been at the top. Why, look at your father. One of the top five most valuable men in Japan. One of the top fifteen in the world! Businesses cropping up left and right and interviews nearly every waking minute, I’m sure.”

 

Teacher leaned over his books and closer into Suneo’s face. “Success like that is in your bloodline, Mr. Honekawa. Your lineage. Success and continuing your family’s name is practically handed to you. All you have to do is apply yourself. You’re so much like your father that it’s uncanny. You can be exactly like him. That’s why I expect so much of you. You have the potential to not only ride on the success of your family, but contribute to it yourself. But it will take hard work. And hard work,” he added with a smile, “includes listening in class.”

 

Suneo’s eyes fixed on the floor. His shoulders drooped. The will to argue or retort drained away, leaving him limp and weak. All at once, he wanted to do nothing but go home and crawl under his duvet.

 

“Yes, sir,” he said at last. His words fell like lead weights in the emptied room. “I’ll try.”

 

He trudged to his seat, retrieved his bag, and crept back up the row, slinking away under Teacher’s gaze.

 

Before Suneo stepped outside, the bottoms fell out of the tumbling gray clouds. Rain poured in sheets. Suneo felt oddly distant and unconcerned as raindrops pelted him and pasted his clothes to his skin. He stared ahead at the sidewalk, barely noticing when cars rolled by, windshield wipers slapping, and sloshed water over the curb and into his shoes. His socks squished as he walked.

 

By the time he stepped through the door into the Honekawa mansion, he was drenched and slopping with cold rain. He wiped his stringy bangs out of his face and glanced around furtively. When he was certain nobody was around to scold him for leaving wet tracks over the floor, he began to sneak toward the staircase. His footsteps squeaked and squashed. He froze.

 

“Susu?” Mama called from the parlor. Suneo winced. A magazine rustled and the sofa creaked. Slippers crunched over the floor. Presently Mama appeared in the doorway, seeming preoccupied for only an instant until she saw Suneo dripping puddles on the waxed cherry floor.

 

“Susu! For heaven’s sake, darling, why didn’t you wear your slicker?” Mama fussed as she swept toward Suneo and helped him wrestle off his backpack. “You’re a sopping mess, sweetheart. Come on; follow Mama.”

 

She directed him to the kitchen, which was invitingly warm. The pleasant smell of sourdough bread wafted from the oven. Suneo clambered onto a chair while Mama swiped a towel from a drawer. She began to scrub his head, scrunching the water from his hair. Despite the occasional nick of her nails into his scalp, Suneo thought, it was rather relaxing.

 

“How was school today?” Mama said. She moved down to pat the wadded towel over his shoulders. “Did you make a good grade on your spelling quiz?”

 

“Yes-s-s.” Suneo frowned. On impulse, he dropped his backpack onto the counter and dug through its contents before extracting a notebook. He riffled through it and pressed his thumb against the corner of a page. His tidy cursive penmanship swirled across the paper.

 

“What’s that, darling?”

 

 “Equations. In two variables,” Suneo said with disgust. “We started learning them yesterday. But they don’t make any sense at all. It’s so silly; alphabets stay with language. Not math!”

 

“You’re having trouble with math again?” Mama said. Disappointment and vague pity weighed down her voice. “Oh, Suneo. It’s ridiculously easy, really. If you sit down and look it over, it will click. All you need to do is try.”

 

Suneo resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Why didn’t parents understand the difference between trying without success and not trying at all? “Mama, I have tried. It doesn’t make sense.”

 

“It’ll come to you,” Mama said in a tone that offered no room for argument. “Math is the most important thing you’ll learn. How will you be able to work with your father and carry on his business if you’re not good at math? You need to keep track of stocks, and count percentages, and subtract insurances and look over inventory—but I wouldn’t fret myself, darling,” she added when she saw Suneo’s dismay. “You’re much better with numbers than you think you are. Your father is a veritable genius with math, an absolute whiz! And I’m no dunce, myself. It’s in your genes.”

 

Suneo was beginning to grow tired of hearing that. He breathed a long, weary sigh and leaned back. If so many things were “in his genes,” then why were they always so difficult? With all the talents his father passed onto him via the easy route of DNA, one would think Suneo would managed to discover them by now.

 

Sometimes he thought that perhaps people gave his father a little too much credit.


End file.
